Her adopted sister watched her constantly, and for those days lived but to watch her. She had heard all Ellen's story from Mary Lawson and Mr. Van Brunt, who had both been to the parsonage — one on Mrs. Lowndes' part, the other on his own — to ask about her; and she dreaded that a violent fit of illness might be brought on by all Ellen had undergone. She was mistaken, however. Ellen was not ill; but her whole mind and body bowed under the weight of the blow that had come upon her. As the first stupor wore off, there were, indeed, more lively signs of grief; she would weep till she wept her eyes out, and that often, but it was very quietly; no passionate sobbing, no noisy crying; sorrow had taken too strong hold to be struggled with, and Ellen meekly bowed her head to it. Alice saw this with the greatest alarm. She had refused to let her go back to her aunt's; it was impossible to do otherwise; yet it may be that Ellen would have been better there. The busy industry to which she would have been forced at home might have roused her; as it was, nothing drew her, and nothing could be found to draw her from her own thoughts. Her interest in everything seemed to be gone. Books had lost their charm. Walks and drives and staying at home were all one — except, indeed, that she rather liked best the latter. Appetite failed; her cheek grew colourless; and Alice began to fear that if a stop were not soon put to this gradual sinking, it would at last end with her life. But all her efforts were without fruit; and the winter was a sorrowful one not to Ellen alone. As it wore on, there came to be one thing in which Ellen again took pleasure, and that was her Bible. She used to get alone or into a corner with it, and turn the leaves over and over; looking out its gentle promises, and sweet comforting words to the weak and the sorrowing. She loved to read about Christ — all he said and did; all his kindness to his people, and tender care of them; the love shown them here and the joys prepared for them hereafter. She began to cling more to that one unchangeable Friend from whose love neither life nor death can sever those that believe in him; and her heart, tossed and shaken as it had been, began to take rest again in that happy resting-place with stronger affection, and even with greater joy, than ever before. Yet for all that, this joy often kept company with bitter weeping; the stirring of anything like pleasure roused sorrow up afresh, and though Ellen's look of sadness grew less dark, Alice could not see that her face was at all less white and thin. She never spoke of her mother, after once hearing when and where she had died; she never hinted at her loss, except exclaiming in an agony, "I shall get no more letters!" and Alice dared not touch upon what the child seemed to avoid so carefully: though Ellen sometimes wept on her bosom, and often sat for hours still and silent, with her head in her lap.